


it gets easier

by Kalgalen



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 07:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: The bundle of flowers in his flesh-and-bones hand feels unstable and dangerous, like it might blow up if he breathes on it wrong.Given the way Jacobi is silently staring at it, carefully not moving from his seat behind the kitchen table, he might be thinking the same thing.





	it gets easier

**Author's Note:**

> you want some sappy post-canon fluff in which the crew lives on a farm and kepler survived and learns how to deal with his feelings? boy did you came to the right place

The bundle of flowers in his flesh-and-bones hand feels unstable and dangerous, like it might blow up if he breathes on it wrong.

Given the way Jacobi is silently staring at it, carefully not moving from his seat behind the kitchen table, he might be thinking the same thing.

“What is-” Jacobi starts after about forty-five seconds of uncomfortable silence. He stops himself, frowns, tries again: “What is this?”

Warren shifts on his feet and scowls.

“Flowers.”

He's aware that answering with a single-word sentence is only going to betray his uneasiness, but he can't bring himself to say something like: “I thought they looked nice.” Or: “It's a gift.” Or - and just thinking about saying that one feels like sandpaper in his mouth: “An apology.”

Jacobi is still taking in the flowers - which, by now, are starting to bend sadly under the heavy texan atmosphere and the warmth of Warren’s palm. Jacobi’s expression is blank, save for the confused crease between his eyebrows, and he seems to be making a tremendous amount of effort not to look at Warren in the eye.

“Flowers,” he repeats, slowly, and Warren has the disagreeable impression he's being mocked. There's another stretch of silence, during which Warren resists the temptation to throw the flowers at Jacobi's clueless face then make a run for it. He feels - so very, impressively stupid. Earlier, when he'd gathered the flowers - poppies, mostly, for their vibrant red shade he knew Jacobi would appreciate - he had thought that this could be a good way to let Jacobi know about the - the _feelings_ Warren might have developed for him, and which he was ready to talk about now.

(The people who are close to him want nothing more than to work with him, his therapist says. They're not the enemy; they are _allies._

She doesn't know the full story yet.)

Now, though - now, standing next to the kitchen table, keeping his spine very straight (parade rest, almost, and he hates hates _hates_ this) as he thrusts a pathetic bouquet of tired flowers in Jacobi's face - now the whole thing feels like the most embarrassing thing he's ever taken a part of.

“Forget it,” he snaps. He drops his arm, ready to leave the room as fast as his dignity allows it-

“Wait!”

Jacobi’s hand shoots across the table and wraps around Warren’s wrist - metal fingers against metal joint, and the sensation is so strange and foreign that Warren almost yanks his arm away.

“Did you, uh.” Jacobi clears his throat, and he _is_ looking at Warren now, something hopeful in the shine of his eyes, something tender in the curve of his mouth. “Did you pick those for me?”

Warren hesitates. It would be so easy to just - deny, walk away, ignore the sick feeling in his chest at the disappointed expression on Jacobi’s face (and his own disappointment, his own _anger_ as he - once again - lets down the person he's come to rely on so much.)

_Try and speak the truth. Do you want him to trust you again? You have to trust him, first._

_Breathe._

“Yes,” Warren replies finally, both to Jacobi's question and the memory of his therapist’s voice. “Yeah, I did.” _I do._

Jacobi rises from his chair, the remains of the radio scattered on the table in front of him forgotten ( _is he trying to build a mole repellent again?_ ) He drops Warren's wrist for a moment, just the time to join him on the other side of the table, and Warren automatically brings the flowers back up in front of him. He realizes how defensive the gesture might look like just a second later, but before he can put them away again Jacobi’s right there, trapping Warren’s hand around the bouquet between his own with a gentleness Warren doubt he - or his sorry excuse for a flower arrangement - deserves.

“This is actually the sweetest thing a guy's ever done for me,” Jacobi says quietly, looking down on the flowers. Then he looks back up at Warren and adds with a half-smile: “Well, except for that time a dude brought fireworks to our one-year anniversary.”

Warren grins at the memory, leans in conspiratorially. He allows himself to enjoy the way Jacobi mirrors him - the old push-and-pull damaged by things left unsaid for too long finally healing, unexpectedly.

“Hmm. That does sound more romantic than a handful of withered flowers. Did you kiss him under the stars, too?”

Jacobi laughs.

“No, but I wish I did.”

It only takes a second - a few inches to close, a sigh of anticipation - before Jacobi kisses him. It's over in the blink of an eye, just a quick press of lips against his own - and it tastes like forgiveness, like the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

Jacobi pulls away, tugging the flowers out of Warren’s grasp, and Warren lets go.

“I'm- I'm going to put those in some water, okay?” Jacobi says. The tip of his ears is almost as red as the flowers in his hand, and - and it's _cute_ , Warren thinks. He nods wordlessly instead of saying something stupid like telling Jacobi how cute he is, and Jacobi smiles back before turning away and going in search of an adequate jar.

Warren’s never been good at acknowledging his emotions, and he can't put a name of the fullness spreading in his chest as he watches Jacobi browse through one of the kitchen cupboard for a vase. It feels overwhelming, too big for his frame - warm, too, like the sun thawing vegetation after a long cold night.

He thinks he likes it.


End file.
